Don't You Cry No More
by SonicTeamFreeWill
Summary: a scene from a potential predicted ending of Supernatural - Sam is dead but he has a last request to make of Dean.


**AN ~ Now this is better quality Supernatural fanfiction than my last one. It arose from a discussion with a friend about ways the show could possibly end. This is one scene from one potential ending we came up with – I have far too many headcanons for my own good so feel free to interrogate me and/or make requests. Meanwhile/Otherwise, enjoy this one.**

Brushing his teeth, it hits him all over again. The silence. No nagging about wasting water, or hurrying up. No teasing about his singing in the shower – not that he'd sung this morning. Not even the details of a case shouted over the sound of scrubbing, or ideas bounced around by his fully-dressed, already-fed-and-exercised moose of a brother leaning casually against the bathroom doorframe. The absence of Sam is heavy on his shoulders. He braces one arm on the bathroom sink as he washes his toothbrush with his free hand and leaves it on the sink to dry.

He reaches into his pocket with the same hand, and pulls out a slip of paper. The paper is so crumpled and over-folded that it nearly falls apart as Dean flattens it out again. It's so small, fitting easily on the palm of his hand. It holds only a few words -

_150 S Peru St, Cicero IN_

_4:00_

Scrawled in his brother's scrappy all-capital handwriting. Just the sight of it brings tears to his eyes, and he has to take a moment to breathe past the lump in his throat as he remembers Sam's tight grip on his hand. _Be there, _he'd said._ One week. I know it's too much. But please. Promise me._

Dean's whole body hurts. He tries to swallow the emotion in his throat and it's like a knife through his Adam's apple. He takes a deep, loud, open-mouthed breath in an effort to get past it and it feels like his lungs don't absorb a thing. They're closed for business, trapped under concrete blocks the size of cars. Slowly, he forces himself to look up. At the sight of his own face, his tear-filled eyes, his shoulders beginning to shake, he feels the lump in his throat immediately disappear. He doesn't doubt it is the years of control he's pressed into himself. He's grateful for them. If he cried any more, his body would be more full of alcohol than water.

"Hello Dean."

Dean barely moves when Castiel appears. The angel's face and voice are unusually somber and he doesn't look Dean, or Dean's reflection, in the eye. He does, however, catch sight of the slip of paper in Dean's hand in the mirror. He has seen it a lot lately. He's never read it up close, but of course, he seems to know what it says.

"Are you going to go?" he asks.

Dean shakes his head, but it's not a refusal. He lets out a long sigh and straightens up, rolling the tense shoulder of the arm that had been clenching the sink. He stares at the paper for a long moment, then screws it up again and stuffs it back in his pocket.

"It was three days ago," he says with a shrug. "Sam was…he was pretty specific. Whatever it was, I've missed it."

He moves to leave the bathroom, but in one large stride, Cas closes the distance between them and puts his hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean appears, alone, on the sidewalk of a town he remembers but doesn't recognise. He looks around for the familiar trenchcoat, but Cas is out of sight. He does, however, see a street sign. Peru. He puts a hand in his pocket and touches the paper, but doesn't draw it out. He has the address memorized by now. In fact, it seems as he studies the buildings around him, that he is standing in front of the very building Sam had directed him to. It is a coffee shop. Not his usual scene. But he knows, _he knows, _even though it churns his gut, that he is supposed to be here.

He looks around once again for Cas, but he is alone. He stretches his neck and tries to relax his shoulders, ignoring the strange looks from pedestrians as he pushes through the café door, orders a black coffee, and takes a seat at one of those little two-person tables by the window. One hand lingers on the coffee cup, lifting it to his lips every now and then for display. The other is still in his pocket, turning the paper over and over. He can't stop his foot from twitching. Increasingly, it plays on his mind that this is a stupid idea, that he's only about to be disappointed, and to be honest he's not sure his heart can take it this time. Even sitting here without Sam teasing him about pie, or drinking some hoodoo-smelling carrot-juice-and-wheatgrass concoction, it feels like there's a brick stuck below his ribcage. He feels everybody's eyes on him. Can they see that he's been crying? No, this is a stupid idea. He wants to go home. He wants to drive out to the middle of nowhere and lie in the back seat of the Impala for days and never speak to another living-

The tiny bell above the door tinkles, and Dean looks on instinct toward the sound. He sees a very familiar face.

She has her yoga mat tucked under her arm. She's changed into looser clothes since wrapping up class, and redone her hair, but she still looks a little flushed – or perhaps that's the nerves. She doesn't really seem to know what she's doing here either. And yet, the kid at the counter waves at her.

"Hey Lisa!"

"Hey…Brian…" she replies, distracted, looking around. The brick has disappeared by now, and Dean shrinks behind his coffee, wishing he had chosen somewhere further back in the store, or maybe that he could just disappear.

"What can I get you?" Brian asks, and Lisa mumbles about a cappuccino in reply as her eyes slide over Dean's. All of a sudden he remembers the way she had looked at him that day, from the hospital bed. She'd been confused. She'd thought he was nice though, he thought. She'd always given guys like him the benefit of the doubt. Dean's gut twists. _Cas, please, get me out of here._

The door is right there. She's already walked past it. He could slip out and noone would ever know.

"Uh…hi…"

She touches him gently on the shoulder, with two fingers, and Dean jumps. Lisa pulls back immediately.

"Sorry," she says, blushing furiously. "You looked a bit distracted. You…you seem to be waiting for someone is all and I'm looking for someone and…" She shakes her head. "Never mind. Sorry."

"No, it's fine." He feels it now, that warmth, he remembers it from his time with her. It's like a light inside him, chasing away all the darkness. Brian waves Lisa over for her coffee, and Dean very nearly chases her.

Fortunately, he doesn't have to. She stops again on her way out, and neither of them call her out for staring.

"Do I know you?" she says at last.

"No," he says, and he can do it now, he can smile. He holds a hand out in greeting. "I'm Dean."


End file.
